


Redux

by crayyyonn



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint/Coulson Holiday Exchange, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Temporary Character Death, i promise it is fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:57:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8737447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crayyyonn/pseuds/crayyyonn
Summary: On the eve of Christmas, Clint is run over by a car.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Clint_Coulson_Exchange_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Clint_Coulson_Exchange_2016).



> Happy Holidays everyone!
> 
> As always, a million thank yous to my one and only Tony, I don't know what I'd do without you. <3

When he opens his eyes, the first thing Clint sees is himself, lying prone and lifeless on a nondescript street of downtown NYC. 

The pavement is wet, growing wetter by the second as the rain pelts down. It makes him shiver reflexively, even though he realizes after a few moments that he doesn’t actually feel cold. Doesn’t feel anything much really, he catches on as he holds a hand out, only for the heavy droplets to pass unremarkably through his palm, adding to the puddle forming around his body. 

He’s sprawled out unbecomingly, he notes, legs at an awkward angle, broken in more than two places from the looks of it. He could have fallen. Probably did, considering he’s typically up high on the roofs, acting as eyes for the team. Except he doesn’t spot his bow anywhere close, and he’s not dressed in his tac suit either. It wasn’t an op, then. The torn bag of groceries nearby seems to support that. 

Crimson blooms across his chest, seeping through the worn purple sweater that has definitely seen better days. He suppresses a momentary flash of irritation—it had been his favorite. Scanning his surroundings, Clint finally sees it, the Fiat wrapped around a street lamp a few feet away. The engine is still running, its driver slumped over the wheel, head bloodied, and in a flash, he vividly remembers walking from the grocery store as he stared down at Phil’s number in his phone. If he concentrates, he can almost feel the way his thumb had been trembling from the strain of hovering over the call button for so long, hear the roar of his heart in his ears. He’d crossed the street like that, distracted, and he’s only got himself to blame for the car that comes out of nowhere to plow into him, the last thought on his mind Phil’s disappointed face when he finds out about Clint’s death. 

What a way to go. 

“A damned rookie mistake,” Clint grumbles. 

There’s a growing crowd around the Fiat, drawn over by the commotion. It doesn’t take too long for them to notice his body, and they rush over in a cacophony of worried muttering. They don’t see him. Crossing his arms, he perches on the fire hydrant behind him. It takes him a few tries in his current corporeality. 

“Couldn’t stop thinking about Phil for half a second to look right and left before crossing the street. And on Christmas Eve too. So stupid, Clint. So _so_ stupid. 

“I’d say so,” comes a familiar voice behind him, and he nearly makes an intimate connection with the paved streets of the city for the second time. Righting himself, he turns around to see Phil fucking Coulson smiling wryly down at him. 

“Hi Clint.” 

“What the fuck, Phil? Why are you here?” 

And damn, that tilt of the head should be illegal for how cute it is. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

_Because you said you would be with your family,_ Clint doesn’t say. “Wait a minute, you see me?” 

This time, Phil frowns. “Again, why wouldn’t I? You wanted me here, didn’t you?” 

Without waiting for Clint to answer, Phil strides over, lifting a hand as he does so. A tablet appears in his palm, making Clint’s eyes widen and sending him scrambling backward and over the fire hydrant. Reaching down, he swipes a large shard of broken glass and holds it out between himself and the advancing figure. 

“You’re not Phil. Who—no, _what_ are you? Asgardian? Kree?”

Phil snorts, not pausing in his steps. “Try again, Barton.” 

It sounds just like Phil, the real Phil, especially when he’s vaguely amused at something stupid Clint had just said. Clint narrows his eyes. 

“Inhuman?” 

This elicits a considering hum. “Close enough.” Shrugging, not-Phil tucks the tablet away under his pristine suit—of course he’s in a suit—only to have it flatten out like there’s nothing there. 

“I’m a reaper. Well, technically your reaper, since you summoned me into existence.” 

“A what?” 

“Reaper, Clint.” 

“Like the devil and hell and… all that?” 

Not-Phil sounds put out when he sighs. “Yes, Clint, the devil and hell all that. I'm here for your soul.” 

Clint just blinks. 

A finger is crooked at Clint and he follows automatically, mentally giving himself a smack when he catches himself doing it. This late at night during the holiday season, there aren’t too many people out on the streets, most kept at home by loved ones and the subzero temperatures outside. It’s where Clint would have been too, if not for the inconvenience of his, well, death. He would have been warm, if not cozy, sprawled out on the couch in his sparsely furnished apartment, debating with himself for the millionth time whether he should have taken Phil up on his offer to spend Christmas with his and his family. 

Phil loves Christmas, he knows. He’s always the first one to go around humming carols under his breath and calling dibs on the best ornaments for his office, well before Thanksgiving. Clint can almost see him now, sipping mulled wine in front of the fire with his parents, stringing popcorn with his nephew and niece for the Coulson tree, which he knows will be massive, or putting finishing touches to the prep work for Christmas dinner. And next morning, he’d be the first one up, even before the kids, as excited as them to tear into his presents. He’d stuff himself with chocolate and fruitcake through the day and get all misty eyed when carolers start on O Holy Night. Phil may be a badass SHIELD agent, one of the best they’ve ever had, but inside, he’s the biggest softie Clint knows. 

And he could have seen all that for himself, first hand, if not for his sudden urge to pick up… what was it he went to the grocery store again?

“Eggnog,” the reaper supplies. 

Narrowing his eyes, Clint says, “How did you know that?” 

“I’m your reaper, Barton, I’m required to know every detail about your passing, time, place, cause. Please keep up.” 

Clint shrugs, but picks up his pace. The reaper is right; sick of staring at the TV in his apartment, he’d gone down to the store for something to get him into the festive mood. Somehow, he’d ended up with eggnog, which come to think of it, he didn’t even drink. It’s Phil’s favorite though. He remembers thinking that he’d warm it up in the microwave as he exited the store into the freezing cold. 

At least he doesn’t feel the cold any longer. He can’t say the same for the loneliness that suddenly overwhelms him though. 

He’s jolted out of his maudlin thoughts when not-Phil stops without warning, Clint barely managing to avoid slamming into his back and straight into the pavement for the third time. It looks solid enough, but you never know. He looks up, expecting… well, he’s not too sure what he should have expected, but it definitely isn’t this. He turns to face the reaper. 

“Is this some kind of joke?” 

“Of course not, Barton, reapers don’t joke.” 

Clint arches an eyebrow at that. “Don’t or can’t?” he mutters, and mimes zipping his mouth shut when he gets a look. 

“We’re here because you’ve got unfinished business, and you can’t leave this plane of existence until it’s finished.” He holds his hand out for the tablet, checks something off it with a slim pen he similarly produces out of thin air, then nods, seemingly satisfied. “Right on time. Now come on.” 

He holds a hand out to Clint, widening his eyes meaningfully for him to take it. He does, grudgingly, and barely has a moment to prepare himself before he’s whisked indoors, inside the familiar four walls of Phil’s apartment. 

It must be some kind of wish fulfillment, Clint thinks. Maybe this is what the afterlife is all about, giving you a taste of what could have been. Stepping further into the living room, he looks around, and it suddenly strikes him why he found it so jarring at first. The apartment is in its normal state, completely devoid of Christmas cheer. No tree, no sock hanging at the fireplace, not even the barest sign of tinsel. If Clint didn’t know better, he’d think it was any other time of the year. 

It’s completely out of character, because Clint knows Phil is the type to decorate every square inch of his place, but he supposes it’s because he’s left the festive cheer for home. He’s about to ask the reaper why they’re here when Phil emerges from the kitchen, TV dinner in hand. Clint has to tear his eyes away from it in order to appreciate the sight of Agent Coulson in a loose oversized T-shirt and sweatpants. He’s not sure which is more unbelievable, that Phil is having what looks to Clint to be the most depressing Christmas ever, or that he owns clothing that isn’t sharp jackets and pressed slacks. 

“Phil shouldn’t be here,” he whispers to not-Phil, even though he knows Phil can’t hear them. “He should be home in Boston parked in front of the fireplace and trading stories with his family, not _here_.” He waves a hand around for emphasis, including the entirety of the bare apartment in his conviction. “Why is he?” 

The reaper shrugs. “I only know as much as you do.” 

“So why am _I_ here?” 

“Phil was the person who was most important to you in your lifetime, so naturally, he’s your unfinished business.” He gestures toward Phil, who’s just settled into the couch with a heavy sigh. “Go ahead, take as much time as you need.” 

With that, the reaper disappears, leaving Clint alone with Phil. He slowly makes his way over, stopping just shy of the couch. When Phil doesn’t so much as blink, he gingerly lowers himself onto the far end of it. 

He watches Phil for a few moments, remote pointed at the TV as he cycles through the channels, pausing longer at some points to shovel a forkful of peas and mash into his mouth. Away from his office and out of his suits, Phil looks tired. It’s clear in the slump of his shoulders, there in every sigh he inadvertently lets out. Clint almost reaches out, needing to smooth out the lines on his face, but he quickly pulls his hand back when Phil’s phone beeps with a new text, even though Phil barely slides it a glance, not even when it beeps twice more in succession. 

Sucking in a bracing breath, Clint slides across the empty space separating them until he’s right next to Phil. This close, he smells like soap and laundry detergent, fresh and clean and familiar and Clint kind of wants to bury his nose in his neck and never come up for air. As it is, he just leans in closer to the drugging warmth, careful not to touch. 

“Hey Coulson—Phil, it’s me. Clint. I, uh, I guess I’m here to say goodbye.” He chuckles a little at this, shaking his head at the incredulity of the situation. “A car accident. In New York, of all places. It’s a really dumb way to go, but I guess, if my time’s up, it’s unavoidable, right?” 

“Anyway, I just… Tasha threatened to gut me if I didn’t say yes, but I guess she doesn’t have to now. I really, really wanted to though. Really, I was just… I was scared. I mean, meeting your family, it’s a big step. And I want to, I really do, but I was scared shitless when you brought it up. But now…”

Phil is still staring disinterestedly at the movie he’s landed on, one of those direct to TV holiday movies Clint’s always loved. He remembers Phil rolling his eyes when he tells him, calling him cheesy and cliched, but still dutifully watching them with him anyway. He swallows around the lump in his throat. 

“Now I think I’d rather be scared shitless for the rest of my life than to be without you.” 

Lifting a hand, he moves to place it on Phil’s, only to have it go right through, and he smiles, wry. He really wants to touch Phil, just one last time, maybe even kiss him, but being incorporeal is awfully inconvenient. But he’s not Clint Barton if he doesn’t try, right? 

Except he doesn't get to, because just as he's leaning in, one arm braced weightlessly against the back of the couch, Phil’s phone rings, shattering the silence. Clicking his tongue in exasperation, Clint glances over at the screen in an attempt to see who's the one with appalling timing, but Phil is already sliding his thumb across the screen. 

“Coulson.”

And then not-Phil materializes right in front of him, a frown on his face. 

“There’s been a mix up,” he tells Clint. He sounds annoyed. “You have to go.” 

“Wait, what? I’m not done—” he starts, but the reaper’s hand is gripping onto his shoulder tightly, ready to take him away from Phil. The last thing he hears from Phil is a panicked _he what_ before he’s whisked away again, seeing and hearing nothing. 

 

-

 

When he opens his eyes, he’s blinded momentarily by the whiteness around him.

_Guess all they say about heaven is real after all_ , he thinks, then slowly shuts his eyes again because he’s so tired. It’s like every atom of his body has been pulled apart and then put together again, without much finesse. Also, he hurts _everywhere_. He thought the point of dying is to never hurt again. If this is the afterlife, well, it sucks. He doesn’t realize that he’s said the last part out loud until it’s met by a soft laugh. 

“One would think you’ve had enough close calls to know the difference between a near death experience and actually dying, Clint.” 

Eyes springing open, Clint squints against the brightness, willing his vision to focus. When it finally does, he twists his head toward the direction of the voice. Phil is there, again, although not in the sharp suit the reaper was wearing, but the same T-shirt and sweatpants he’d had on when Clint was with him earlier, with a jacket thrown over the outfit. He looks equal parts amused and relieved, but Clint thinks the lines on his face has grown deeper. When he tries to lift a hand to trace them, smooth them out, Phil catches hold of it. 

“You scared me,” he says in a rushed exhale, linking their fingers together. 

“You’ve seen me almost die more times than I can count,” Clint replies, voice sounding raspy to his own ears. 

He lifts his head a little to take stock of his injuries: both his legs are in casts, but the rest of him seems okay. Well, except for his ribs, which feel more than a little sore. He must have landed on them when he was knocked down. 

“Doesn’t make it any easier,” comes the dry reply. “But to be knocked down by a car, Clint? After the things we’ve seen? The great Hawkeye, taken down by a rustbucket.” Phil shakes his head, eyes twinkling. 

Pouting, Clint slurs, “It was a brand new Fiat and it came out of nowhere. Wasn’t my fault.” 

“Wouldn’t have happened if you said yes when I'd asked you to come home with me for Christmas.” 

The crooked smile Phil has been wearing since Clint regained consciousness is still firmly in place, although it’s currently tinged with uncertainty. Clint hates that he’s put it there. 

He squeezes the hand that’s in his. He’s still terrified, but— “I’m sorry for being a coward. I do want to, although I’m not sure if all this is going to make a good impression.” 

Eyes soft, Phil squeezes back. “We don’t have to do it now. Whenever you’re ready.” Lifting Clint’s hand, he presses a quick kiss on the back of it. “You’re too banged up to make the trip anyway. We’ll have a quiet celebration, just the two of us.” 

“But with less TV dinners and more trimmings. I can’t believe you didn’t even put up a tree. You.” 

Phil blinks, surprised. “How did you—you’ve been to my place?” 

Clint just grins. He winks at the reaper, who’s been watching quietly the whole time, waits for him to disappear, then shuts his eyes against the sudden exhaustion that hits him. He’ll tell Phil later, he promises himself. After all, they have an entire lifetime together now.


End file.
